


bottle me up (take me everywhere)

by stingerpicnic (ibelieveinfiction)



Series: it's a small world after all [2]
Category: Moominvalley (Cartoon 2019), Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Established Relationship, Feelings, Fluff, Gift Giving, M/M, Moomintroll continues to be sweetest creature on the planet, Purring, cat Snufkin rights babey, flustered snufkin, soft, y'all they're so in love it's ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-11
Updated: 2019-05-13
Packaged: 2020-03-01 05:34:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,055
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18794017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ibelieveinfiction/pseuds/stingerpicnic
Summary: There was something that Snufkin had said, after they’d settled in each other’s arms to sleep, relaxed and purring happily but tired from the emotionally draining conversation, that was giving Moomin an idea. A rather good idea at that, if he did say so himself.A direct sequel to "your smile brings sunshine/your tears bring rain (you're my whole world)"





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based off of [this post](https://stingerpicnic.tumblr.com/post/184788425842/moomintroll-can-must-should-and-will-say-i-can)
> 
> This first chapter takes place just a day or two after the events of "your smile brings sunshine/your tears bring rain (you're my whole world)"

They’d had their talk.

It had been difficult to get through, not because it was difficult to care for and comfort Snufkin. He loved him, caring for and comforting him was a privilege he cherished, not only because it was granted to so few.

It’s just—it’s so _hard_ seeing him hurting. But they still had to get through it. Not doing so wasn’t an option. They’d been working on healthy communication for a while. He knew that trying to simply ignore a problem until it went away would do nothing but make it _worse._

...Not that he knew that from some very personal experience, or anything. He’d never avoided talking about his own issues and insecurities to the point where the emotional stress made him _sick,_ or anything. That had never happened. And even if it had, he knew better now. He would talk about talk about his problems long before they progressed to that point. And he was so much more secure in their relationship now, anyways.

But, still, their talk had been enlightening.

Moomin _did_ feel a little guilty about the hand he had had in Snufkin’s distress, but he pushed the feeling down. There was no use for it right now. He knew how to alter his behavior now, anyways, and it was no hardship to do so for Snufkin.

He just wished Snufkin had told him _sooner._ He had been trying to make him feel _less_ guilty about leaving by being a little less verbal about how sad it made him as he had been in previous years, not _more._ He’d always felt guilty himself for making Snufkin’s departure more difficult than it had to be with his pleading for him to stay even after he’d accepted he needed to go years ago. He’d been trying to make it easier on him this year, honestly, especially after Snufkin had confessed he _did_ feel a little bad about leaving him alone each year. But it turns out that he had just accidentally awoken Snufkin’s buried fears of abandonment.

Nevermind that his fear was incomprehensible to Moomin. He’d never, _never,_ even so much as _consider_ replacing Snufkin with someone else. Snufkin was too special, too wonderful, too lovely for anyone to ever come _close_ to taking his place in Moomin’s life. He loved him too much to give him up. Just because he’d grown to accept that he had to let him go every year for the winter didn’t mean he was ever going to do so with the intention of it being permanent.

He’d told him as much, being careful to keep the utter incredulity he was feeling out of his voice. It may have been a shocking revelation to him, but Snufkin didn’t deserve to feel like he was being made fun of. His fears were real to him, however irrational. Moomin knew that better than anyone. He had his own share of fears that had no reasonable possibility of coming true and he often wasn’t the bravest when it came to ones that did, anyway. He knew it hurt to not feel like you were being taken seriously, especially when it was coming from someone you loved.

Moomin is momentarily pulled out of his thoughts when he hears a soft, sleepy sound come from the body pressed against his own, feels paws clutch at his fur a little more insistently than before, and, most notably, both hears and feels a sudden and distinct lack of a second rumbling purr to accompany his own. Pulling Snufkin closer, pressing him into his chest just a little tighter, Moomin maneuvers them so he can press a soft kiss to the crease trying to take over his brow. The wrinkles slowly smooth themselves out and the purring starts up again, a little more relaxed, and Moomin knows Snufkin has returned to the peaceful, happy dreams he deserves.

He lets out a breath, a soft smile making its way onto his face. _Honestly,_ how could he ever even think of giving this up?

They’d talked long into the night about all the things that were bothering Snufkin. Not everything was as surprising as his fears of abandonment, which, honestly, he probably shouldn’t have been so surprised about as it was, Snufkin had been found _alone_ in a _box_ as a small child, of _course_ he’d have some sort of abandonment issues, however unfounded they were in this case. But everything else made sense, too.

Things _had_ changed between them when they decided to start a relationship a couple summers ago. Even if it didn’t really feel like anything had changed at all sometimes, it had been a change. It made sense that Snufkin might start feeling worse about leaving for winter now that they were closer than ever. And it was unsurprising that Snufkin was finding he was changing himself, feeling the need for solitude less sharply than before, even if he did still feel it. He just wished it didn’t cause him so much distress, even if he understood why it did.

Still, Moomin thinks that there are things Snufkin didn’t say. But he also gets the feeling that some of those are things he didn’t _know_ to say, because he hadn’t discovered them yet.

That’s fine. Those things will be discovered one day and they would talk about them then. There’s no point in pushing for answers that Snufkin can’t or isn’t ready to give. This wasn’t the first time they had had to have this conversation and he doubted it would be the last. Fears take much more than a single battle to put to rest, and reassuring each other of their place in each other’s lives, reminding each other of the understanding and acceptance they have for what the other needs, could never truly be a hardship when they love each other so much.

Though there was something that Snufkin had said, after they’d settled in each other’s arms to sleep, relaxed and purring happily but tired from the emotionally draining conversation, that was giving Moomin an idea. A rather good idea at that, if he did say so himself. It made him feel warm inside just thinking about it, a broad smile taking over his face. And he wasn’t even the one who would be receiving the gift!

...

“Moomintroll,” Snufkin had whispered into the dark like he was sharing a precious secret, “you’re so warm and kind. I almost wish the world was full of so many yous. It would be better for it.”

Moomin had huffed out a quiet a laugh. “A world full of me? And only one of you? That wouldn’t do. I can’t imagine a world where so many Moomintrolls could be happy without their own Snufkins to come back to them in the spring,” he said, easily giving into the quiet nonsense that came with late night, half asleep conversations. He didn’t tell Snufkin that he couldn’t imagine it because he _was_ his world, he wasn’t trying to keep him up too long by flustering him again so soon after the last time. He didn’t need to say it, anyways. He could tell by the warmth where Snufkin pressed his face into his shoulder a little harder that he understood.

It was another long moment before Snufkin spoke again. “I suppose we couldn’t have that. Moomintrolls shouldn’t be unhappy,” he said, like it’s something _important,_ the _most_ important thing.

“And Snufkins should have someone who loves them to return to when they decide they’ve had their fill of being alone,” he agreed, like it was just as important, like it was _necessary._

Snufkin remained still and quiet against him for long enough Moomin had begun to think he’d fallen asleep before he spoke again. “Sometimes, when the nights grow cold enough to steal the warmth from my very bones and I haven’t seen another soul for days,” he said, the words halting and hesitant but unwavering, like he was confessing some great sin, sure he would be judged harshly but still determined to finish, “the joy of being alone threatens to sour into painful loneliness and I almost wish I could trap your warmth and kindness and love in a bottle to take with me always.”

Moomin hadn’t known exactly what to say then, so he bundled Snufkin up as close as he could, nuzzled the top of Snufkin’s head, and whispered, “That _would_ be nice, wouldn’t it?,” like it was a promise that he would _try._

...

His idea might help Snufkin or it might not, but he was sure his efforts would be appreciated regardless. But those were really thoughts for the morning. He couldn’t really get started until then, anyways.

Moomin falls asleep with a smile on his face, perfectly content, and tangled up in Snufkin’s arms.


	2. Chapter 2

Moomin doesn’t get that much work done on his gift in the morning. 

Instead, he spends the early morning hours lazing around with Snufkin. The world feels fuzzy and soft. _He_ feels fuzzy and soft, heart full of the kind of warm and gentle love that usually only appears sparingly and in quick flashes. The kind that strikes quickly and sharply for all its blunt edges and squishiness, in quiet moments when he looks up at just the right time to catch the edge of Snufkin’s smile, or his adorable look of concentration, or the tranquility that steals over his face when they’re just sitting alone, enjoying each other’s presence. The kind of love that would normally fill his chest so suddenly and so fully he’d be sure he would explode from the sheer size of it.

But he doesn’t feel like he would explode right then. There’s the good kind of ache settled right over his heart, but he doesn’t feel like he’s too small a container for the amount of love he has to give. He feels vast and unending, like the ocean Snufkin loves so much.

The early morning light is dim, casting soft gray shadows and granting the moment a sort of timelessness, a sort of intangibility. They’re alone and together and nothing can touch them.

It’s so easy to run his fingers through Snufkin’s soft curls, to seek out his paw with his own and entwine them, to press soft kisses into skin and hair and fur, to snuggle just a little closer.

There’s nothing better than the sound of Snufkin’s quiet breaths, Moomin thinks. The weight of his body draped around his own, soft and warm and _there._ The quiet sound of their soft, sleepy purring echoing around the fabric walls of the tent, an ever present reminder that they both feel relaxed, content, and _safe._ The barely there mumbled words they share between bouts of consciousness, almost too quiet to hear, like they’re both speaking something fragile, something that must be handled with care, something too precious to ever truly see the light of day.

Outside, he can just barely hear the gentle autumn breeze and the rustle of leaves. Inside, he catches Snufkin’s sleepy gaze. They both smile, silently agreeing that right now, everything is _perfect._

Neither of them want to get up quite yet, and there’s nothing wrong with some lazy early morning snuggle time. They won’t be needed for some time yet.

….

Eventually, they do have to get up.

It takes them until they can no longer pretend that the sun hasn’t climbed high in the sky and that they’re not hungry. But they do, eventually, admit that it’s time to get up and crawl out of the tent to greet the late morning sun.

Moomin sees Snufkin start to stretch, arms reaching high into the air. He’s all rumpled clothes and messy hair, a red spot pressed into his cheek where he’d been sleeping on it. His mouth opens wide in a yawn, exposing his fangs. It’s adorable.

“I love you,” he says, because it’s true and he wants to say it. He’s sure he’s said it many times in past hour or two, mumbled against the top of Snufkin’s head and whispered into the slight space between them. But reality has finally gone back to feeling _real_ and he finds he wants to say it again.

Snufkin pauses. “I love you too,” he says, with pink dusting his cheeks and a smile playing on his lips.

“You’re especially cute in the mornings. Did you know that, Snufkin?” he says, because it’s true as well and he wants to say it. The pink deepens to red.

“...I think I’ll make breakfast. Or lunch, now, I suppose,” he says too loudly after a moment. He moves to do just that, but not before grabbing his hat from where he’d left it and pulling it low over his eyes.

Their meal is good. After, they hike through the forest for a while and enjoy the beautiful colors of a forest in the full-swing of autumn and their own conversation.

That night, he kisses Snufkin goodnight and makes the short walk back to Moominhouse. Snufkin wants to be alone tonight. He’s had a lot of emotions recently and as much as he loves spending time with Moomin, he still needs some time alone to recharge. Moomin refuses begrudge him his time.

He eats dinner with Mamma and Papa and Little My. It’s good, too. He loves eating meals alone with Snufkin, he loves it when Snufkin decides to eat dinner with the rest of them, but there’s still something to be said for times like this.

Afterwords, he’s sitting in his room, staring at blank paper and resisting the urge to give up before he’s even started.

He wants to give Snufkin everything he could ever want. And what Snufkin wants is a reminder of reality, of the fact that he thinks about him _all the time_ , of the space he’s claimed in his heart.

It shouldn’t be hard to give that to him. It isn’t, not really. He could write the length of Papa’s memoirs twice over just talking about how much he loves him. He’s already got so many words bouncing around in his head that he wants to spill out onto the page.

It’s just--he wants it to be perfect. He wants to capture the exact feeling that blooms in his chest every time he hears Snufkin’s rare laugh. He wants to describe the love he feels so accurately, so earnestly, that Snufkin would be able to feel it himself and be reassured. He wants to quantify something infinite, something precious, something priceless.

He’s scared that he’ll fall short. He’s scared he can’t _not_ fall short.

 _Look at me,_ he thinks, _just a bit ago I was so confident, telling Snufkin he’s cute just to see him blush and confessing that he’s my whole world. Where has my nerve gone?_

He has to do this. He made a promise that he’d try. Even if Snufkin hadn’t heard it in his voice, a promise was still what he had meant.

So he takes a deep breath and thinks of Snufkin. Snufkin is messy and tattered around the edges and half the time he’s coated in dirt and mud. All his clothes are ragged and worn and wrinkled. He has sharp edges, though Moomin has always found them blunted whenever they concern himself. Nobody would call him perfect and yet Moomin thinks he is.

Maybe he’s not perfect in the traditional sense. He has faults and there are things about him that can annoy even _him,_ but still. _Still,_ Moomin looks at him and he can’t imagine anyone better. He wouldn’t trade him for anything in the whole world, not unless he wanted to be let go.

Out of the corner of his eye, he catches sight of the quilt on his bed. Mamma had made it for him and he loves it to pieces. Still, if he looks carefully he can see small imperfections. Misplaced stitches, lines that aren’t perfectly straight. But none of those things make him love it any less. If anything, he loves it more, because there’s only the one that’s exactly like it and Mama made it for _him._

Maybe it doesn’t matter if his gift is perfect. Maybe it doesn’t matter if there’s ink spots on some of the pages or if he feels like he’s repeated himself a thousand times. Maybe it shouldn't even try to be perfect. Maybe it _should_ be messy and erratic and _real._ Maybe all that matters is that he pours all his love into it.

He fixes those thoughts in his mind, takes another deep breath to steady himself, and begins writing the first entry of many.

_Snufkin, have I ever told you how much I love our mornings together? Today we did nothing but cuddle for hours before getting up. I wanted to stay in that moment forever. It was so incredibly nice and the love for you that filled my chest felt like…._

….

It isn’t ready by the time Snufkin leaves for winter. But that’s alright, he hadn’t expected it to be. He has too much to say, too much love to express for it to be done so soon. And while he had accepted that it wasn’t going to be absolutely perfect, Snufkin deserved more than whatever rushed thing he would have produced had he tried to have it done by then.

Instead, he gives Snufkin a single letter to see him off. It wasn’t as detailed as his full gift, but it was sincere and full of love and he’d doodled little leaves and flowers and hearts in the corners and along the margins. Snufkin looked more than happy to have it, in any case, a tinge of relief making its way into the smile alongside the joy, so he's satisfied that it’s a good hold over gift.

Snufkin would come back in the spring and his gift would be done by the time he was ready to leave again. That’s as long as Moomin was going to allow him to wait.

In the meantime, Moomin continued to write whatever he lovely things could think of until it was time for him to enter hibernation. The few times he woke from hibernation, he wrote more. He wrote about the dreams he had and how much he missed him, how he was special and irreplaceable and _good_ . He even wrote about how he had worked himself into a right fluster just thinking about how much he loved him. It was a little embarrassing, but Snufkin _would_ probably like to knowing about it.

Then, Snufkin returned. The overflowing happiness he felt was nearly intoxicating. He scarcely wanted to think about anything else, not when his mind was just an endless loop of the words _“Snufkin’s back!!!”_ But he forced himself to take a step back, just for a second before he succumbed again, to take in _exactly_ what he was feeling in that moment, engraving it into his mind so he could copy it down later.

Spring, summer, and most of autumn passed in much the same way it had in all the years previous. The only exception was that now he had something specific to do with his time alone and he was making more of an effort to pay attention to every moment he spent with Snufkin so he could write about it later.

It was… a good feeling, to be working on a project he enjoyed. And it turned out that paying specific attention to the time he spent with Snufkin only made him love the mumrik even _more,_ which shouldn't have been possible.

….

It was another cool late autumn day, just like last year, when Moomin knew it was time.

They had been sitting together in the yellowed grass near Snufkin’s tent, just enjoying each other’s company and conversation when he'd started to feel it. The soft line of pressure against his side getting harder, the twitch of the tail looped around his own, the change in his purr.

“Winter's almost here,” He says. Last year, he'd let Snufkin work himself up too much, thinking he would say something before it got too bad. This year he's bringing it up himself.

“Uh--yes.” He feels Snufkin go fully tense against him before he sigh and relaxes again. “It is,” he says quietly.

“I have a gift for you,” he says, not bothering to hide the anxious excitement he's feeling.

“A gift?” he says, sounding far too cautious. Moomin sees his face color pink, “What sort of a gift?”

“Snufkin, it wouldn't be a surprise if I told you, now would it?” he laughs. “I had planned to wait a bit longer to give it to you, but it wouldn't hurt to do it now. You stay here, it won’t take me a second,” he says, already getting up.

It's not a minute before he's across the bridge to Moominhouse and up to his room. He pulls out the big green book that had become of the paper he had been using. He'd bound it himself, with the help of Papa, not too long ago and he's rather proud of how it came out. It's simple, but he thinks Snufkin would prefer it that way.

Quickly, but still carefully, he flips through the pages one final time. The first page is a dedication, _“For Snufkin, I love you so much it's indescribable, but I'll try anyways.”_ He'd thought hard about what to put for it, but he's eventually settled on something simple that he thought captured what he was trying to do. Further in, he catches sight of a lot of his own handwriting and all the small drawings he'd scrunched into corners and along margins. He paused for a second on the page where he'd attempted to draw Snufkin himself--it wasn't very good, but he'd still included it and drawn hearts all around it for good measure. He's glad, now, that he'd decided to keep it. It's sweet, he thinks.

On the last page he spies his final entry, written not too long ago, _“Snufkin, if you've read any of this you probably already know that I love you so much that sometimes I can barely breathe around the size of it. Still, though, I think I love you even more now than I did before. Writing this, paying attention to every moment we spent together and every feeling I felt around you, was enlightening for me. It enlightened me to the very likely possibility that I'll never stop falling in love with you. I didn't think I could be any deeper in love than I already was at the start of this, but I've never been happier to be proved wrong. I love you. I'll never stop.”_

He'd signed it at the bottom of the page, like this was just some very, very long letter. And he supposed it was, sort of. A love letter to Snufkin.

He's almost embarrassed to give this away. He'd poured his heart out onto these pages and he hadn't held anything back. It was all… _him,_ his thoughts, his feelings, _everything_ , and giving it away was a scary thought.

But he knows Snufkin will take care of it. He's sure of it. He never would have even started if he wasn't.

Snufkin has _never_ intentionally done anything to hurt him.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, closes the book, and takes it down to Snufkin.

Snufkin, for his part, looks relieved when he sees him coming toward him carrying a book. Moomin notices the red leaving his face even before he crosses the bridge. Moomin isn't sure what that's about, he hadn't been gone that long and he hasn't even done anything worth him getting flustered over yet. But he lets it go, he has something he needs to do.

“Is that the manuscript you were working on all year? Are you finally going to let me read it?” he asks, sounding genuinely curious.

That's right, he had told Snufkin he was working on a manuscript, just like Papa, when he'd been caught writing. It hadn't _technically_ been a lie, he supposes that what he was writing _could_ be called a manuscript if looked at a certain way. Still, he was lucky that Snufkin had dropped it after being told it was a surprise he was trying to keep secret.

“We'll, I did write it for you, specifically, to read,” he says, holding the book out for Snufkin to take.

“Oh,” he gasps. “You didn't have to do that, dove,” he says softly, like someone who's been given something priceless they never asked for and don't know how to handle without breaking, but he still reaches out to take the book.

“I was hoping you would take it with you on your travels this year,” he says, watching Snufkin open it to the front page, “but if you want I can keep it safe for you here until you get back.” He doesn't want to say that last bit, because he knows Snufkin leaving it with him would feel like a rejection, even if it wasn't meant as one. But he knows Snufkin's feelings on material possessions and traveling with only the essentials and he knows that books aren't really _essential_ even if he thinks that this one should be, so he forces himself to say it anyways.

He's not sure if he ought to have bothered, though, because he's not even sure that Snufkin _heard_ him. He'd frozen when he'd opened the book to the dedication, red beginning to creep its way back onto his face nearly instantly. The only movement he'd made since was a jerk of his arm to move the page. Moomin could see he was on the page of the very first entry, now.

Moomin watched him turn the page again. And again. And again. His face was getting steadily redder and redder as the seconds ticked by. He was worryingly silent. Moomin wasn't even sure he was _breathing._

He felt his nerves rise within him again. Did he not like it?

“Um… Snufkin?” he says to what is apparently his statue significant other, reaching out to touch his shoulder. Snufkin jerks back, a ragged gasp tearing out of his throat. A loud purr violently erupts out of his chest, but he's also breathing irregularly, every other breath catching on the back of throat, and there's a shine to his eyes like he's about to _cry,_ so Moomin doesn't quite know what to think.

Oh, this was _not_ the outcome he'd been hoping for. How had he actually managed to make Snufkin cry with his gift?! He had to try to salvage this somehow.

“Is It really--I thought--well, I thought to give you something to show you how much you mean to me,” he stammers, sounding desperate and disappointed and shocked. He doesn't know what to say to fix this, and Snufkin is still staring at him with wet eyes. “Last year you told me you wished you could bottle me up and take my love with you to keep you warm in the winter and I thought, why don't I see what I can do? And well, you liked last year's letter enough so I thought that maybe this idea did have some merit, after all,” he's rambling now, he knows he is and it sounds pathetic and desperate to his own ears. He feels the beginnings of tears start to prick at his own eyes, but he refuses to start crying. “But if you really don't like it I suppose I can--” _get rid of it, or_ _burn it, or tear it apart, or something,_ he was going to say but doesn't get to. Instead he feels something slam into him, hard, a band of pressure closing around him.

A glance down tells him that the “something” was Snufkin and the “band of pressure” is the tight hug he's currently receiving. Snufkin has his face buried in his shoulder, his own shoulders shaking like he's sobbing and Moomin feels his fur start to get wet. But, Snufkin is also still purring up a storm and he _did_ initiate the hug, so maybe he's not too terribly upset with him? Moomin hopes he's not. For now, though, he doesn't know what else to do but bring his arms up around him and rub circles into his back while he whispers assurances into his ear, so that is what he does.

He doesn't know how long they stand there, but eventually he hears Snufkin break the not quite silence they had settled into.

“Is it--the _whole_ thing? _Really?”_ he says, his voice, thick with emotion and raw from the tears still sounding so much like a child. A child with stars in his eyes who had just been told their impossible dreams were coming true. Excited and happy beyond belief but not quite willing to believe it's really his for the taking.

“Yes, the whole thing. I've been writing it since around this time last year,” he says, because there's really no point in trying to lie about it. He feels Snufkin press his face into his shoulder again, but this time he can feel his smile through his fur. “You're really not upset?” he asks, voice wavering, because he _needs_ to know for sure.

Snufkin pulls back, face red and eyes shining, but the wide smile splitting his face in two is _real,_ even if it is a bit watery. He's the most beautiful thing Moomin has ever seen.

“Moomin-- _dove_ \--I-I can't tell you how happy you've made me. This is the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me. I think it might be the sweetest thing I've ever seen be done for _anyone,”_ he says, one of his paws coming up to cup Moomin's face. “Of _course_ I'm not upset. I love it.”

“I thought you didn't care for material possessions?” he says, humor coloring his words. He feels a little silly now for ever letting himself think Snufkin didn't like his gift. It was just himself put to paper after all, and Snufkin seemed to like him just fine, _loved_ him even.

Snufkin laughed. “I think I can make an exception, just this once.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Later, after they've both calmed down, Snufkin goes back to his tent, buries his face in his pillow, and sets about screaming because he's just been given the sweetest, softest, cutest gift ever made and he doesn't know how to deal with his emotions.
> 
> I hope you liked it! Feel free to come scream at me over on my [tumblr](https://stingerpicnic.tumblr.com/)! I promise I'm friendly.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you liked it! Feel free to come scream at me over on my [tumblr](https://stingerpicnic.tumblr.com/)! I promise I'm friendly.


End file.
